


You Always Have a Choice

by Dreaming_in_Circles



Series: This Rocky Road [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Internal Monologue, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Past Brainwashing, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:02:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2826005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_in_Circles/pseuds/Dreaming_in_Circles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing moment from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2214471/chapters/4854786">A Will To Power</a>.</p>
<p>Rumlow wants to finish the mission; there are still Avengers, they still have to be killed. Tony Stark is next on my list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Always Have a Choice

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place between Chapter 2 and Chapter 3 of A Will To Power. It explains what occurred between Stark and Bucky.  
> Sorry it's so long in coming; life's been a bitch. I'm sure you know how it is. Thanks again to Allison for the Beta; your encouragement is so so wonderful!  
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy! Feel free to leave a comment; I love constructive criticism.

The van stops with a jerk and I let it rock my body. I look down at myself again; run my hands over my gear to make sure it is all where it should be. Outward, I keep my appearance calm, but I’m tearing up inside. I don’t want to be here; I don’t want to do this. They say history repeats itself, but I don’t want to be the one to do it.

I hear Rumlow turn in the front seat, undoubtedly to look at me, and wonder why I’m still here. My breathing is slow and steady, but shallow and I feel like there’s no air in my lungs. I resist the urge to start panting in front of Rumlow and look up at him. While my behavior is unusual, I expect he will ignore it like he has all my other quirks these past weeks. I am not disappointed when he simply nods at me, muttering “Go,” under his breath. I stare at him for another second before pulling open the door and pushing myself out of the van.

I walk down the alleyway quicker than I normally would, far faster than I need to or should. I feel strung tight as steel wire, my movements arejerky with too much repressed energy. I want to run, I want to scream, I want my shaking hands and weak knees to go away.

Instead, I keep walking until I reach the first access hatch. Stark Tower is still under construction from damage sustained in the Battle of New York. The construction limits security, and while Stark himself is still safe inside his private levels, this debris shoot will give me my first entrance.

I climb under the long, tarp-covered tube. It’s filthy and hot inside, and air stuffy and clouted with particles. I reach up with my left hand and grab the first metal rib giving the tarp its round shape. I apply an appropriate amount of pull and the pressure sensors in my arm tell me it will hold my weight. I reach up with my other hand and start climbing.

I have to keep the tube balanced, and therefore climb in a spread-out and awkward position that has my muscles burning fifteen minutes in. I still have 200 feet to go, but between the muzzle and the stale air, I can barely breathe. I realize with surprise my shaking has stopped and my muscles no longer feel over-energized. Just sore.

I haul myself up the last 200 feet, and climb out of the debris tube as it opens into the Tower. I’m panting far too hard behind the muzzle, and move my hands to take it off before I realize what I’m doing. I would get in so much trouble.

I take it off and stuff it under my vest for lack of a better place to put it. The air is cool this high up, the glass broken and the room exposed to the smoggy, windy atmosphere of New York City. It swirls around the room and whips my hair around my face as I cross the floor to Stark’s private elevator shaft. The elevator is on the ground floor, a women named ‘Pepper Potts’ having left the tower an hour ago, and it’s a straight shot up the remaining three floors to Stark’s private lab.

I take a device provided by Rumlow out of my back pocket and hold it up to the touch panel next to the elevator doors. It magnetically seals itself to the panel and starts hacking into Stark’s security. After a moment, it flashes a single green light for a half-second and I know the security is gone. The device shut down the entire system.

I push my metal fingers into the crack between the two elevator doors and push them apart. They stay open; there’s no electricity to force them to close. I take a breath then jump into the shaft, my hands wrapping around the cold steel and high-density cables that hoist the car up and down. They rattle together, the sound echoing up and down the elevator shaft. I hadn’t realized it would be so loud. But Stark’s lab is soundproofed; he won’t hear a thing.

I pull myself up the cables, but it’s slow going. My hands keep slipping on the smooth metal, despite the gloves I wear. The four stories feel like four decades. When I finally reach the correct door, I swing my legs out, my boots catching the support beam, and I throw my upper body over. For a moment, if feels like I’m going to miss, and fall, and I feel my heart leap in my chest, then my fingers find the edge of another support beam, and I pull myself close. My breath’s coming in pants, and I’m covered in a cold sweat; my heartbeat feels like it’s going a million miles an hour. My hands are shaking, but I know this time it’s from exertion rather than fear.

I reach over with my left hand and pry the doors open. I see a nice apartment, all glass and polished wood. There’s a large, crushed space in the middle of the floor that seems very out of place with the rest of the apartment.

The room does appear to be empty, which I expected. Intel says Stark will stay in his lab until midnight, usually. Sometimes he even sleeps down there. I don’t know what he does down there, which adds an element of risk, but the mission should be simple.

I pull myself out of the shaft, and find the stares that lean from this level down to his lab. I have to walk past the crushed floor to find it, and it catches my attention that the damaged spaces look like they could fit a person. My height, but thinner. What was Stark doing that he was throwing a person into the floor? Using something from the lab?

I shake my sudden unease off, forcing myself to continue to the stairs. This entrance is more hidden than the elevator. It also allows me to be ready before I step into the lab, and is quieter. I pull out my gun and slide down the steps smoothly, every muscle on high alert. I really don’t want to become a dent in the floor.

I reach the bottom of the steps without incident, and maybe taking out the security systems was enough to protect me from the majority of Stark’s weaponry. I creep around the corner of the stairwell, gun raised, and there’s nothing. No one. But, Stark was here. I confirmed it, right before I left for the mission. Where is he?

“You know, if you want to sneak up on me, deactivating Jarvis is not a good way to do it.” A voice says, and I spin to face it. Tony Stark is standing near a display, one arm covered in armor. But only one arm. Wires run from the armor up the rest of his arm, over his shoulder, and down his side into a pocket. My research says the armor is powered by a small arc reactor. It must be in his pocket.

“It makes using the suit difficult, but you were really much better off with the element of surprise. Ask anyone. I’m very hard to kill. People have tried.” He keeps talking, the armored hand pointed at me. I know it’s weaponized, but I also know I can avoid it.

“A lot of people have tried, actually. And to be honest, you got pretty far. Most people can’t get inside my security. Want to tell me how you did that?” He looks at me expectantly, and I blink when I realize he actually expects an answer. I stand up straighter with a frown, lowering my gun. Is he serious?

There’s a sudden whine, and the end of the armor lights up orange. I throw myself to the side as a ball of energy hits the ground where I was standing. Chunks of concrete fly everywhere, and the air is thick with dust. I scramble to my feet and push myself forward, behind a metal bench. I collapse behind it, gun ready and hyperaware. I let my guard down and nearly died. No way am I making that mistake again.

I hear footsteps coming closer, and an almost imperceptible whine that must be the arc reactor. I need to disarm Stark. Once I do that, he’ll be no match for me, genius or not. I won’t be able to get the armor off; I can simply disconnect the armor from the reactor. If it’s not powered it’s not a theat.

I tuck the gun back into its holster and scuttle on my hands and knees around the bench just as the footsteps round the corner to where I was. I make a complete circle around the bench quickly, until I’m right behind Stark. He’s looking away from me, I have the element of surprise. I shift my weight from my arms to my legs, crouching and preparing to rip the arc reactor from his pocket.

I see his muscles tense, and he goes unnaturally still as a familiar whine fills the air. I twist my body behind bench just before he spins and discharges another blast in my general direction. The concrete is hot under me as I spin out from behind the bench, partially hidden by the dust. I push myself forward, wrap my hands around Stark’s armored hand. The whine picks up again but too late as I twist myself out of the way, pointing his arm away while the weapon discharged.

The blast was hot energy and it felt like my skin’s burning, my eyes watering from the dust and the heat. I force myself to kick my leg out, wrapping it around his and bringing him to his knee as I rip the wires out of the armor. The whine stops and the metal starts to cool under my fingers at it loses power.

Stark lashes out with one arm, taking a shot at my knee, catching the side where it’s unprotected by the kneepad. I shift my weight off of that leg immediately, knowing the trauma will weaken it, and instead use it to knock Stark’s other leg out, twisting his arm so it’s behind his back. I yank my gun out of the holster and press it against the back of Stark’s neck. He must recognize what it is, and he stops struggling.

My finger finds the trigger and I apply pressure.

I apply pressure.

I can remember that little kid in the back of the car. Not a threat. Just really tiny. I didn’t kill him…

We’re both of us panting now, and in pain. Stark’s not struggling, but I don’t know how long that will last. I need to end this now. I need to correct a two-decade old wrong and _goddamn_ _kill him-_

“I know who you are.” The words are wobbly, like he’s trying very hard to now sound scared, but is in too much pain to do it well. “You don’t have to do this, Sergeant.”

“Shut up!” I scream, tightening my grip and pushing his arm farther behind his back. I hear him grunt in pain. “I don’t have a choice!”

“You’ve always got a choice.” Stark bites back. “You’re, what? Ninety-something? I think you can make an informed decision on your own.” There’s stress in his voice, and I can hear the – what is it? sarcasm? – in his voice, but—

I suddenly can’t breathe. My hand is shaking minutely. I force myself to let go of Stark and walk backward in quick, jerky movements. He collapses forward in pain and exhaustion, and I turn and run. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want to kill him. I’m not going to kill him.

I don’t have to do it if I don’t want.


End file.
